


the tide that left (and never came back)

by padattack



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:38:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padattack/pseuds/padattack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when they’re curled in their foxhole talking in low murmuring voices just to keep each other awake, Snafu tells Sledge about home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the tide that left (and never came back)

  
He starts as another name Snafu has to forget. Another polite eager to please southern boy two steps away from dropping his bag on the bed of someone who’s name Snafu _did_ know, but who no longer has a need for the bunk.  
  
If the sight of Eugene Sledge, 50 Mortar, causes a spark of something low and aching in his stomach, well. Snafu can always blame it on the hunger.  
  
  
  
Sledge goes through the whole landing with Snafu’s puke on his boot. By the end of the day the dust and blood have washed it away, and Sledge is the only reason Snafu is still alive.  
  
  
  
The thing is that Sledge comes across as so young and _good_. Like to put a gun in his hands is a crime in itself, because he’s the type of person who should be protected, not someone who should be thrown to the front lines to fight for his own life.   
  
There’s something about Sledge that makes Snafu want to reach out – reach out in a way he hasn’t since before Guadalcanal. Before he watched the rain and mud swallow sanity whole, guns in mouths and an incessant downpour that wipes limp bodies clean of everything but a warning. _This is what you’re about to become._  
  
Snafu watches Sledge’s face light up in a smile – the rarest thing he has seen in these God forsaken war torn lands – and it catches him off guard. It seems so out of place amidst the bombs and scorching hot sunshine. Sledge should not be here. War is for boys like Snafu – boys with no future and nothing to lose.  
  
Sledge squints a little and glances away from Snafu, his eyes catching on a blast of light and severed limbs. His face sobers immediately.   
  
From nowhere the thought hits Snafu like a bullet – sharp and piercing and there’s a stinging pain in his chest that throbs like he’s bleeding out and there’s no going back. _I would fight to protect that smile,_ he thinks. _Of all things worth dying for, there can’t be much more worthy than that._  
  
  
  
Sometimes, when they’re curled in their foxhole talking in low murmuring voices just to keep each other awake, Snafu tells Sledge about home.  
  
If the image Snafu paints of a rundown apartment, absent mother and drunkard father disturb Sledge, he never shows any sign of it.  
  
Snafu supposes that even his fucked up childhood must look like an idle daydream compared to the hell they’re being subjected to now.  
  
  
  
One morning, when Snafu is stumbling out of the foxhole, he slips – knee coming down hard on the ground and body tilting off balance – his gun weighing him down on one side. Before he can slip face down in the mud there are hands on his waist, fisted into his shirt and keeping him up.  
  
Snafu instinctively twitches away from the touch, causing him to slide further in the mud.  
  
There is a loud laugh from behind him, and the fingers tighten, digging into his sides. Snafu stills himself and then turns slowly to find Sledge grinning back at him.  
  
“Graceful,” Sledge smirks.  
  
Snafu would reply if he could remember how to speak at all.  
  
  
  
There’s no such thing as privacy in this war. There are no walls to hide behind, nor silences to savor. But when Snafu hunkers into the foxhole at night with his gun settled against his chest and lets his eyes drift closed he can pretend he’s somewhere else – a hotel by the sea, maybe.   
  
The location doesn’t matter so much as who he imagines himself with, and the mere thought of Sledge – relaxed and pliant next to him – is enough to tempt him deeper into the dream.   
  
But at the same time it makes something roll painfully in Snafu’s stomach. Sledge is too _good_ for Snafu to ever even touch. He feels a undeniable sense of shame well up in him every time he imagines Sledge’s hands on him, mouth wrapped around his cock.  
  
When Sledge wakes him for his shift Snafu avoids his eyes like the plague. Sledge has the decency not to call him out on it, just curls up around his gun and pillows his head on Snafu’s leg.  
  
It may not be the war that breaks him – sure it tears at him till everything within him is ribbons and shreds of what he used to be – but the power to break Snafu is Sledge’s alone.  
  
  
  
They’ve been on Okinawa for five weeks and gone two without washing the mud out of their clothes when everything starts falling apart. The tension has been growing for days – Sledge scoffing derisively at something Snafu says, or Snafu snarling irritably when Sledge drifts off into that absent gaze he’s so prone to these days.  
  
Snafu doesn’t even remember what it is that started them off, but suddenly he’s dragging Sledge away from the other boys – cutting a warning glare at Hamm when he attempts to follow them.  
  
“You gotta get yo’ head out of yo’ ass,” Snafu snaps at Sledge, grateful for the way Sledge finally looks at him – looks at him like he sees him, like he’s not just looking through Snafu the way that he has been for weeks on end now.  
  
“Like you’re one to talk.”   
  
Snafu fists his hands in the collar of Sledge’s shirt, snarling when Sledge puts his palms against his chest and shoves. Snafu holds on, glaring right back.  
  
His voice is pointedly low and even. “Fuck you, Sledge.”  
  
“Yeah, fuck you too, Shelton.”   
  
Sledge grins sarcastically around the name, and for a moment Snafu wants nothing more than to tear into his perfectly sardonic exterior. Snafu is crumbling to pieces and Sledge is walling himself in – anything to keep himself from falling apart. In a flash Snafu wishes desperately for the Sledge from before – the boy who didn’t smoke or swear or look at people with those empty cold eyes that feel like fingers in Snafu’s chest, ripping his insides to shreds.

He feels a moment of aching loss because that boy is gone and there never was anything that he could have done to stop it.   
  
Before he knows what he’s doing he’s moving forward until their chests are pushed together and his lips are pressed against Sledge’s own. There is a moment when Sledge freezes, and Snafu’s heart almost stops with the loss of movement against him.  
  
And then Sledge is pushing him away, eyes wide and confused and maybe even angry, and Snafu’s heart immediately trips into double time. He feels mortified and sick and takes a step towards Sledge with one arm extended, reaching for his wrist –   
  
“Gene,” he says, as close to pleading as he ever gets, but Sledge flinches away from him and Snafu draws his hand back like he’s been burned.  
  
There’s a loud thudding in his head and Snafu feels tears rising at the backs of his eyes. Shame is a hot burning coal at the pit of his stomach but it’s nothing compared to the panic that rises in him when Sledge stumbles backwards and then turns without a word and heads back to camp.  
  
Snafu has spent his entire life being a disappointment, a fuckup, a trouble maker. He has never hated himself more than at this moment.  
  
  
  
The day afterward is filled with tense silence and short clipped sentences. Snafu keeps his eyes down and his mouth shut.  
  
Sledge alternates between shifting uncomfortably away from Snafu whenever they’re within five feet of each other and shooting unreadable looks at him that Snafu can’t even begin to understand.   
  
Every time the gunfire stops Sledge has his bible out, pencil poised against the page, but as far as Snafu can tell nothing is ever written.  
  
He lasts seven hours before he breaks – the discomfort and guilt too heavy on his skin to stand.  
  
“Sledge,” Snafu says, and Sledge looks up at him quickly, eyes locked on Snafu’s face and there are no words for what he wants to say right now. There is no way to tell Sledge what he wants – to tell him that this is the most significant relationship he’s ever had in his miserable life and he’d take it all back, take everything back if it meant Sledge would smile at him again – would roll his eyes at Snafu’s stupid dirty jokes or let Snafu lean against him when it’s cold and dark and not even the stars seem to want to shine on them.  
  
“I – ” he tries to say, but he doesn’t know where to go from there. Doesn’t know how to make this _right_ again.   
  
Sledge stares at him, and Snafu clamps his mouth shut.   
  
Sledge opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out but air.   
  
Something hovers between them, pushing them apart and bringing Snafu to a cold sweat every time their gazes happen to catch. Silence has never felt quite so suffocating.  
  
  
  
“Snaf?” Sledge’s voice comes quiet and exhausted through the gloom of the night.  
  
“Yeah, Sledgehammer?” Snafu responds in surprise, breath catching at the end of the nickname. He clears his throat against the traitorous inflection, and twists his head to seek out Sledge’s face in the dark.  
  
Sledge coughs a little, shifting next to him. “You alright?” he asks cautiously, tilting back to examine Snafu’s face.  
  
“I’m just dandy, Sledgehammer,” Snafu drawls, biting his lip to try and hide his confusion.   
  
Sledge nods a little to himself, looking tired in a bone deep way Snafu is getting used to. Sledge slips down further in the foxhole until his helmet is resting against Snafu’s shoulder – light at first but gaining weight as he dips closer to sleep.  
  
“Sledge?” Snafu asks, quiet and unsure. “Hey, Eugene?”  
  
Sledge hums in a noncommittal way that means he’s too far gone to pay attention, and Snafu stays tense and pointedly still until Sledge’s breathing has evened out, chest rising and falling gently with a fragility that scares Snafu more than any Jap ever will.  
  
Snafu doesn’t move again until Sledge wakes with a startled gasp, torn from a dream that Snafu dares not ask about. Snafu surveys him as blankly as possible when Sledge pulls back to dart a quick glance at his face. Whatever Sledge finds there he seems to accept, because he lowers his head again and his fingers twist innocently into the leg of Snafu’s dungarees.  
  
Sledge falls asleep restless and fragmented, and Snafu breathes.  
  
  
  
Sometimes, when he’s not busy hating the Japs for everything they’ve done and everything they stand for, Snafu tries to figure them out.  
  
He’s seen a young girl with a bomb strapped to her stomach – seen the flash of Jap gunfire from over the ridge that blows her to pieces. He’s watched women and children be used as shields for soldiers, all in the name of the Emperor.  
  
Sometimes he wonders if any of these soldiers are sending their own families into the fray to die. Wonders if this is a sacrifice they are willing to make for their ruler.  
  
Snafu knows about duty to god and country, but he also knows with a fierce certainty that given the choice, Sledge comes first. Will _always_ come first.  
  
  
  
It starts with Sledge’s knee pressing into Snafu’s thigh in the foxhole. Snafu marks it down to the fact that Sledge is asleep, or is unconsciously seeking warmth. It’s nothing they hadn’t done a million times before the strangling silence had taken over. A head on a shoulder or bodies angled in towards each other, helmets or shins pressed tight to share heat.  
  
Suddenly Sledge’s hand slips off his gun and lands on Snafu’s lap, and for a moment Snafu can’t breathe. He tries to keep still, even though the hand feels like it’s burning through the layers separating it from Snafu’s skin. He exhales slowly through his nose, and tells himself that he can’t wake Sledge up.   
  
He carefully wraps his fingers around Sledge’s wrist, meaning to slide the hand off his leg, but when he glances up to make sure he hasn’t woken the other boy, Sledge’s hand turns so their palms are pressed lightly together, and his fingers slip between Snafu’s and stay there. Sledge is peering up at him tentatively through his lashes, and Snafu wishes he could think through the hammering in his chest.  
  
Sledge doesn’t say anything, just shifts until his poncho is covering their hands.  
  
Snafu doesn’t think either of them sleep that night, but in the morning when they pack up their gear Sledge shoots him a smile – tiny and embarrassed – and Snafu can’t do anything but stare helplessly back.  
  
  
  
Three days later Sledge brushes past Snafu, and his hand presses gently into Snafu’s hip and squeezes before he moves away. Snafu fumbles with the canteen he’s holding, and chokes on his water.   
  
Sledge’s eyes are dancing with laughter when Snafu looks up, and it’s the first time Snafu has seen him look so alive in what could be months.  
  
“Alright there Snaf?” Sledge asks, all mock concern and devilish tilt of the head.  
  
Snafu flips him off and coughs feebly when Sledge just beams back.   
  
  
Revenge is a dish best served cold, but all meals are served cold here, so Snafu only waits half an hour before he “accidentally” stumbles in the mud, slipping until he’s pressed right up against Sledge, hands on his shoulders and mouth near touching his ear. One leg slides furtively between Sledge’s, and Snafu hums a quiet laugh into his neck.  
  
He pulls away after a quick moment, and winks cheerily at the shocked look on Sledge’s face. “Sorry about that.”  
  
There is the start of a smile on Sledge’s lips, and Snafu feels light enough to fly.   
  
  
  
A departing Marine tosses Sledge the pipe as they’re passing. He tilts his head in a pained smile and says, “You take care of my girl now.”  
  
Sledge nods back in that polite and accepting way of his – like he’s had a lifetime of people offering up their things for him (Snafu doesn’t doubt that he has. There is something about Sledge that makes one want to give him everything) – and says, “yessir, I’ll do that.”  
  
From then on the pipe is either lodged firmly between Sledge’s lips or being run through his fingers, the smooth wood of it may be the only truly clean surface in miles.  
  
Watching Sledge smoke is just about as relaxing for Snafu as it is for Sledge to smoke it. Some nights he thinks it’s the only think keeping him from crawling out of his own skin.  
  
Other nights Sledge wraps his lips around the pipe, catches Snafu’s eyes and holds the gaze – hollows out his cheeks and _sucks_. Those nights are spent tense and uncomfortable in the foxhole, helpless awareness of the fact that Sledge is asleep mere inches away from him a constant presence that forces Snafu awake, his skin prickling every time the other boy shifts or makes a muffled noise in his sleep.  
  
When his watch is over Snafu leans into Sledge, closer than strictly necessary but nobody else is awake to see it. His lips brush Sledge’s ear lightly, the smallest of touches and then –   
  
“Sledgehammer,” he whispers, and Sledge comes awake immediately. And maybe Snafu is projecting, maybe he’s imagining it, but he can’t help but feel like there is a certain ease in the way Sledge comes back to life when Snafu wakes him. Like he knows it’s Snafu who’s doing the waking, and this means that everything is alright. There is never any panic or fear in Sledge’s eyes when Snafu eases him out of slumber. Snafu likes to pretend this means something.   
  
Other times he presses a little closer to Sledge, feels the warmth of Sledge’s leg seep into his skin, and lets the other boy sleep.  
  
  
  
One night Sledge is wound tight and tense, all sarcasm and impatience with everyone who speaks. Snafu watches quietly, torn between telling Sledge to shut the fuck up and offering himself up as a punching bag – anything to get that dark look on Sledge’s face to go away.  
  
“Sledgehammer,” he finally says after a particularly murderous look the other boy shoots at Kathy. “We’re all tired.”  
  
The glare Sledge aims at him could wither meadows. It’s more effective than a bullet in the chest could ever be.   
  
Sledge is on his feet and stalking away before Snafu can say anything else. Kathy rolls his eyes when Snafu gets up to follow him.  
  
“And you can shut the fuck up,” Snafu snaps at him over his shoulder before he quickens his pace. Sledge is pacing back and forth a few yards away, and something in Snafu’s chest tightens. It’s unusual to see Sledge so active - he’s much more prone to sitting still and staying silent.   
  
He glances up at Snafu and then looks away again, and when he speaks his voice is sharp and even. “Not now, Snafu.”  
  
Snafu stays quiet, and Sledge seems determined not to look at him again.   
  
After a few minutes of nothing, Sledge spins around to face Snafu and spits, “Jesus Christ, I said _not now_! What do you _want_ from me?”  
  
Snafu steps back a little, caught off guard by the vehemence in Sledge’s voice.  
  
Sledge immediately looks sorry that he said anything. He turns away and says, his voice soft and tired, “nevermind. Just. I just need a minute, alright?”  
  
Snafu stays firmly where he is, and when Sledge turns back he raises his chin defiantly, daring Sledge to say anything else. There’s confusion in the other boy’s eyes, and Snafu wants to step forward and smooth it all away. He holds himself painfully still instead.  
  
Sledge stands there, looking at him with pained eyes, and Snafu finally takes a step forward, hands held slightly out to his sides like Sledge is a frightened animal he’s trying not to scare away. Now it is Sledge who is standing stock still, mouth drawn shut and hands by his sides. He doesn’t move when Snafu is a foot away from him - just watches warily.  
  
“Gene,” Snafu says, and Sledge’s eyes close, clenching shut like he’s trying to block something out.   
  
When he opens them again there is something new in them - something that Snafu doesn’t think he’s ever seen there before. Sledge’s tongue darts out, swiping quickly across his lower lip, and then his hands are on Snafu’s shoulders and he’s pulling them together - his lips a careful hesitant press against Snafu’s.   
  
Sledge tastes like dirt and the coffee Snafu had that morning. He pulls away and watches Snafu like he’s afraid of what’s coming next.   
  
Snafu feels like every bone in his body is vibrating with the need to touch Sledge.   
  
“ _Gene_ ,” he says again, raw and shaking and something dawns in Sledge’s eyes - something bright and uncertain and amazed and Snafu thinks - _finally_.  
  
  
  
When Sledge talks about home he speaks of his older brother, the suffocating attention of his mother’s constant eyes, the concern in his father’s as he held his stethoscope over Sledge’s murmuring heart. Mostly he talks about a dog and a boy, and summer days spent running through wide fields and over streams.   
  
Snafu remembers seeing Sledge with Sidney Phillips once – remembers the ease with which Sledge had relaxed into a smile, eyes softening and shoulder leaning in to dig into the other boy’s side.  
  
“Well ain’t that cute,” Snafu drawls when Sledge gets a letter. “Sledgehammer _does_ have a girl back home. How _is_ dear sweet Phillips?” He means for it to sound mocking, but from the way Sledge looks up at him, confusion prevalent in his eyes, Snafu has failed. And then understanding breaks over Sledge’s face, delight following quickly after.  
  
“Oh, _yes_ ,” Sledge grins, playing along. “Sid is just fine. Says he’ll wait for me no matter how long the war takes.”   
  
Snafu knows Sledge is kidding, but he can’t help the scowl that creeps over his face at the words.  
  
Sledge laughs, throwing Snafu a dangerously fond smirk. “Don’t worry, Shelton. You’ll always be my girl.”  
  
It shouldn’t make Snafu feel better.   
  
(It does.)  
  
  
  
There are civilian bodies creating a pathway up the mountain, and Snafu is struggling to breathe. His brain feels rattled in his head and there’s a pulsing in his chest that pushes a wave of panic through him every time it hits.   
  
“Snafu,” Sledge snaps, and Snafu’s head jerks up, his body instinctively orienting itself towards Sledge like he’s been doing it all his life. Sledge is silent for a moment, and then he nods his head. “You can’t dwell on it,” he says finally, but the words sound stale and empty.  
  
Snafu looks down.  
  
Sledge moves forward, kneeling in front of Snafu and resting a light hand on his ankle.  
  
Snafu darts a quick look around to make sure that nobody is watching them. When his eyes settle back on Sledge’s face, the other boy’s eyes are calm and sure.  
  
“It’s alright,” Sledge says.  
  
There are bodies littering the mud and the blood of a baby blown to hell might be on all of their hands.  
  
“Snafu,” Sledge says, refusing to let Snafu look away again. His grip on Snafu’s ankle tightens. “We’re gonna be alright.”   
  
Snafu almost believes him.  
  
  
  
Sledge’s dog is dead and Sledge himself doesn’t seem to be doing much better. After everything – all the fallen soldiers and blasted off faces – it may be this that breaks him.  
  
Snafu can’t take the blank dull stare that Sledge refuses to direct at anyone’s face any longer. He waits until Hamm with two M’s is busy rereading his own letter, and then he grabs Sledge’s wrist and tugs him up.  
  
Torn from his thoughts, Sledge blinks rapidly at him, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips and the crease between his eyebrows.  
  
“The hell?” he asks, pulling back.  
  
Snafu scowls. “C’mon,” he mutters, tightening his grip and yanking. Sledge slides through the mud despite how much he tries to dig his heels in.  
  
“Christ, _stop_ ,” Sledge snaps, snatching his arm out of Snafu’s grip and downright glaring now.  
  
“Eugene,” Snafu says, turning to look at him. “Come on.”  
  
Sledge waits for a moment, then nods slightly, moving forward. Snafu drops his eyes, relief sneaking through him in a slow crawl. Sledge follows him toward the edge of the camp where the sounds and sight of the other marines fade away.  
  
“What’s this about?” Sledge asks, and he looks tired and spent and Snafu just wants to make it all better, as stupid and cliché as that sounds. He presses Sledge against a rock, burrowing his head into Sledge’s neck and inhaling the smell of sweat and blood and week old grime.  
  
“Snafu,” Sledge murmurs, his head dropping to rest against Snafu’s hair. Snafu stays there for a moment, selfishly breathing in Sledge’s skin, and then he lifts his head, nose grazing Sledge’s cheek and nudging gently against the other boy’s. Sledge stares back at him – too close – and Snafu feels his breath catch as he resists the urge to smooth his fingers over the freckles scattered across Sledge’s face. And then he’s pressing forward, tilting his head to line their mouths up together.  
  
Sledge turns his head away until Snafu is mouthing at the junction between his neck and his jaw.  
  
“Snaf,” Sledge breathes, quiet and breaking. “I can’t. They could – God, Shelton, I’m _exhausted_.” His head hangs low and it looks too much like defeat for Snafu to accept. He slides a hand up Sledge’s neck and finds his chin, forcefully maneuvering it until their lips find each other again. Snafu’s mouth moves slow and gentle as he waits for Sledge to relax into the kiss, until his hands at last find Snafu’s hips and grip like it’s the only thing keeping him up.  
  
Snafu keeps them there for a moment, Sledge pressed against the boulder and Snafu’s hands anchored on him – one on his waist and the other cradling the back of Sledge’s head, fingers carding through mud caked hair.  
  
He finally breaks away, nipping lightly at Sledge’s lower lip as he pulls back and grinning a little at the muted whine Sledge makes at the loss of contact. Sledge’s eyes stay closed as Snafu surveys him – carefully observing and cataloging the way his lashes look long and wet against the bluish tinge of the shadows beneath his eyes, and how his skin is pale and almost ashen beneath the speckled dirt that layers his skin. Snafu runs his thumb across one of Sledge’s cheeks, smudging the mud there and breathing out harshly when Sledge sinks into the touch.   
  
Without another thought Snafu drops to his knees, landing softened by the give of the wet ground. Sledge’s eyes snap open and Snafu keeps their gazes locked as he moves to loosen the belt around Sledge’s waist.  
  
The other boy’s hands come immediately forward to stop him, head shaking already, eyes slipping closed again.  
  
“Don’t,” he says softly, pushing Snafu’s hands away.  
  
“Eugene,” Snafu says. And then, “Gene, please.” He twists his arms and presses Sledge’s hands back against the boulder, fingers tracing the veins and bruises on his wrists. “Let me.”  
  
Sledge watches him wearily then dips his head in a nod, and he looks wreaked already, eyes fluttering and breath stuttering when Snafu takes him into his mouth.  
  
“Shelton,” he almost sobs, fingers clawing desperately at the rock behind him. His palms are scraped and near to bleeding, and Snafu pulls off long enough to guide them into his hair, humming _it’s alright, Gene,_ before he bends back down, Sledge’s tightening fingers urging him on.   
  
When Sledge comes he does it silently, legs shaking and finally giving out from under him. He slips down the rock until Snafu is kneeling between his sprawled legs, their foreheads pressed together and breath hot and wet between them.  
  
Sledge finally breathes in, nudging Snafu back a little and snaking an arm between them, fumbling for the snaps on Snafu’s dungarees.   
  
“Gene,” Snafu pants, choking out a laugh when Sledge looks at him defiantly. “Let me just – ” he slips a hand down his pants, fisting himself awkwardly and jerking himself off with rough uneven strokes as Sledge sighs against him, thumbs coming up to slide carefully over Snafu’s temples.  
  
“C’mon,” Sledge mutters, rocking forward and pressing dry lips against Snafu’s own. “Snaf,” he orders softly into the other boy’s open mouth, “come for me.”  
  
Snafu is starting to doubt that he will ever be able to deny Sledge anything. The thought should scare him more than it does.  
  
  
  
Burgin is wasted – grinning and patting Snafu on the back, eyes laughing as he watches Sledge lean back on his elbows to blow smoke into the dry night air.  
  
“Boys,” Burgin says, fingers digging into Snafu’s shoulder in an attempt to steady himself. “I’m gonna go join the party. You enjoy yourselves. Don’t go getting in any trouble without me there to save your asses, you hear?”  
  
He winks at Snafu and throws a wobbly salute at Sledge before he stumbles off to join the celebrations by the tents.  
  
Snafu fights to stifle a smile but fails when he looks up and catches Sledge’s gaze – seeing the mirrored affection and amusement staring back at him.  
  
There is silence as they watch Burgin commandeer a new bottle of liquor, turning back to raise it in a toast to them before he moves away again.  
  
“Well,” Snafu says, but he doesn’t really have anywhere to go from there, and Sledge doesn’t seem inclined to say anything either, so they lapse back into a comfortable silence.  
  
Snafu looks up and traces the stars with his eyes in a way he hasn’t been able to all throughout the long nights of sporadic gunfire and nightmarish flashes of dropping bombs. Soon this will all be over. Soon he will be back in New Orleans, and there will be no more twinkling stars or uproariously drunk Marines. There will be no more Sledge – no more dry laughs and secret smiles – hands the only warmth Snafu ever feels anymore, the only thing that anchors him down and keeps him in the here and now.  
  
Snafu glances over and finds Sledge watching him, pipe crooked carefully between his lips.  
  
“Alright,” Sledge says finally, breaking the silence and quirking his head at Snafu. “Come on, then.” He stands and slides down the rock, landing on his feet and heading for the beach. He doesn’t look back to see if Snafu is following, but then again he doesn’t have to.  
  
They reach the sand and Snafu watches as Sledge stares out at the ocean. Eventually he turns back to gaze at Snafu, and there is something so calm and still about him that Snafu can’t help stepping forward, one hand reaching out to brush against the underside of Sledge’s wrist.  
  
Sledge smiles, soft and quiet, and looks back out at the crashing waves one more time before he finally turns his back to them. Snafu leans forward, pressing his forehead against Sledge’s and waiting for permission to move closer. Sledge laughs against Snafu’s cheek and brings one hand up to tug the collar of Snafu’s shirt.  
  
“You gonna kiss me, or you just gonna stand around all night?” Sledge asks, something exasperated and fond in his voice.  
  
Snafu darts a quick bite at Sledge’s lower lip, pulling away almost immediately and smirking when Sledge follows him forward, a pout on his face as Snafu neatly sidesteps him.  
  
“Maybe I wanna see you work for it,” Snafu leers, pressing his fingertips into Sledge’s hips and pushing him away when Sledge tries to tug him closer.  
  
Sledge laughs, long and loud. “Oh, I see,” he grins, “you wanna watch the new guys sweat, right?”  
  
Snafu’s gaze softens, and he lets Sledge get close enough to touch, knuckles grazing the front of his shirt until Snafu’s fingers are twisted in the bottom and he can pull Sledge all the way forward, air humid and too thick between them. “Nah,” he says, “just you.”  
  
Sledge is still laughing when Snafu kisses him, and he wants to remember this. Wants to capture it in a photograph, or painting, something to remember Sledge by when all that’s left are empty rooms and nightmares.  
  
  
  
When he wakes up it’s still dark out, and the sand feels like it’s imprinting itself on the skin of his back – Snafu wishes the pattern would stay on him forever – a reminder that this happened, that at one point in his life this was real. He’s about to open his eyes when he feels a hand on his chin, fingers running light and gentle up his jaw and then brushing carefully across his forehead and over his cheekbones.  
  
He knows it’s Sledge without a doubt. Nobody else has ever touched him like this before – with a reverence usually reserved for religion or soul-mates or something so sacred and fragile that Snafu can scarcely imagine it.   
  
It makes him feel shaky and weak, and Snafu fights to keep his breathing even and his hands from trembling.  
  
Sledge doesn’t say anything or give any sign that he knows Snafu is awake, but he stills for a moment and Snafu almost looks up, almost says something – he doesn’t know what – but then there is breath on Snafu’s face and the warmth of dry lips pressing softly against first one closed eyelid and then the other.   
  
Sledge pulls away and there is one last tentative touch of fingertips to Snafu’s lips, and then there are the sounds of him rising to his feet and muffled footsteps in the sand.  
  
When Snafu opens his eyes, Sledge is gone.  
  
  
  
Snafu looks across the table at Sledge, who is shoveling peas into his mouth, and thinks _ask me to stay._  
  
He imagines getting off the train. He will walk from the station, return to his sorry excuse of a home, sleep for a week and then get up one morning and go back to the lumberyard. It will be as if the past few years of his life never happened. As if Sledge never existed.   
  
But Snafu knows himself – knows that there is too much time to think in the small cramped bedroom of his apartment. He knows that the faces of dead soldiers and dying friends will haunt him until they fade into the ever present background of his daily life, and even then there will be one face – one ghost that will never leave him.   
  
_Ask me to stay_ , he thinks when Burgin gets off and is engulfed in a hug by his younger brother. _Ask me to stay_ , he chants in his head as they cross over state lines, the words becoming a mantra in his head as he stares at Sledge and tries to beam the thoughts into the other boy’s mind. _Ask me to stay ask me to stay ask me to stay._  
  
 _Wake up_ , he thinks when he stands up, the train rattling to a stop around him. _Ask me to stay_ , he silently urges as he stares down at the peaceful tilt of Sledge’s head against the window.  
  
He takes three steps and then stops. Thinks, _if he wakes up right now, if he calls out for me, I’ll drop my pack and stay_. There’s nothing to go home to in New Orleans – not when home has become a broken smile, warm hands callused from the weight of a gun, lips soft and careful against the pads of his palms and the sleep deprived lids of his eyes. _Wake up now and I’ll follow you anywhere you ask me to go, and everywhere you are too afraid to ask of me. Wake up now and I’ll never leave you again._

 

  
Sledge sleeps.

 


End file.
